


Rebirth and Rediscovery

by Alkarinque



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Gen, Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020, warning: animal death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:40:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26182057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alkarinque/pseuds/Alkarinque
Summary: What is important to know when Eru decides to drop a stitch in the tapestry that is the Song, is that He is, in the end, only the one doing the dropping and nothing else. In other words: Aegnor and Andreth were, in the beginning of their new, own story, just that: new and on their own.
Relationships: Aegnor | Ambaráto/Andreth | Saelind
Comments: 29
Kudos: 39
Collections: Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ElegantBookworm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElegantBookworm/gifts).



> My fic is written for ElegantBookworm's art, her AO3 profile is here: [https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElegantBookworm/pseuds/ElegantBookworm](url) and link to her artwork and tumblr is here: [ https://theelegantbookworm.tumblr.com/post/627844314613137408/beyond-the-confines-of-the-world-my-art](url)
> 
> and here is the amazing art itself:
> 
> And of course I need to thank elwinfortuna, who was the beta for this work <3

“What do you mean ... What do you mean he’s not _there_?”

The sun was shining outside in still harmony among the green trees in the palace garden, but inside there was a storm raging. Finarfin could do nothing but stare at the Maia of Námo, Eärwen could only sit still and stare at nothing, at a loss for what to say, and Finrod was silent but pale. Outside the world went on, a bird even began to sing, but now silence reigned in this room in the palace.

The Maia was silent as well, and in their stillness – they did not need to breathe, after all – they were more like one of Nerdanel’s statues than a being capable of speech. Their grey clothes, which fell in the perfect waves of a well-done statue, only strengthened the effect. Their face, hidden underneath the hood that all Námo’s Maiar wore, could not show any sign of emotions, but their sheer presence was enough.

“How-- ... Did you _lose_ him?” Finarfin asked, not knowing what to think. He was bewildered, but also desperate. _He is not there–_

“No, we did not,” the Maia answered – they did not refer to anyone with titles --, “your son was in the Halls, this we know, and has been there for many years. But not anymore.”

“But- where is he then? Is he back?” The last question was said with a desperate hope and Finrod looked up, wary and frowning. He had been there, he had Seen _–_ he knew that it could not be possible.

“He is not here,” the Maia said, and the hope died in Finarfin’s eyes, but then, he had expected that. “I only came to tell you that ... Your son is no longer in the Halls, nor in Aman. Ambaráto Aikanáro no longer resides on these shores.”

Finarfin only stared back, silent, at those words. Eärwen finally looked up and her eyes were troubled: dark and vaguely threatening, like the dark sea.

“Where is he? Where did you take my son?” she asked, and her voice was relentless. The Maia, still unmoving, quiet and eerie like a statue, said nothing.

 _Is it out of mercy?_ Finrod wondered. _Are they not telling her out of mercy?_

“I have already lost him once, and now you say that I have lost him again?”

 _You never got him back in the first place,_ Finrod thought, but still said nothing, not even as his mother began shouting.

His first memory was like a dream; he did not remember when and where it began, or how long it took before he really _woke_ up. When he later tried to remember, he could only make out darkness and the sensation of water around him. Cold, fresh, and moving water. It was like drifting until he realised that he had to breathe.

Then the noise of waves against sand reached his ears, and then he was above the surface and sounds and smells and warmth came crashing down on him – and air! Sweet, salty air! His fingers touched sand and he felt it scrape against his cheek and throat and how his hair clung to his head. Half his body was still covered by the water, like a blanket.

He realised he had a body. Then he realised his eyes were closed.

The seagulls greeted him with their shrill shrieks, and he wondered, for a moment, if he was back in Alqualondë as a child, swimming in the sea with Angrod, then Angaráto, and falling asleep in the sand. He thought: _No, the light is wrong._ Then: _No, the sand is too coarse._ Then: _Where am I?_

He saw the sun, as it was going down. _That must be westwards, then,_ he thought automatically, as if that would help him. The sky was orange in the sun’s honour, and he thought of peaches. He used to eat those in his childhood, did he not? They had been sticky but sweet and soft, and his grandmother used to wear dresses in their colour. His grandmother, the Queen, who had white hair which shimmered like the pearls everyone in Alqualondë dived in the sea for, only to wear them in their hair.

His mother used to have pearls in her hair, he remembered. Eärwen was her name, and she used to sing, but Fánwen, the Queen, always sang sweeter. He remembered listening, but then he realised he could not remember the words. But he remembered a life, a land green and bright, and two Trees, and a family and--

A life’s knowledge rushed through his head and he pressed his cheek to the sand – sand, yes, he remembered sand, wet and warm; wet and _red_ – and his eyes shut. He remembered his name again – _Ambaráto Aikanáro_ , but someone he loved had called him _Aegnor_ – and his story – bright and lovely, angry and cold, wary and warm, desperate and anguished – and he remembered a death; flaming red and hot, with the cracking of burning pines on a slope of a mountain and screams and a sky clouded by smoke. A final thought dedicated to a memory by a lake and a voice saying _Aegnor_. Then a darkness; a peaceful, nurturing, and forgetful darkness. Then this.

He opened his eyes again, with a deep breath as if he could not breathe and saw the sky again and remembered Fánwen and her dresses and saw the sunset. _That is west,_ he thought. He rolled around so that he lay on his back, with the warmth pressing from behind and the slightly chilly air touching his chest, all the while his belly and legs still lay in the enclosing water, which fell back with the waves.

_Where am I?_

She did not remember when she woke up. She remembered the sun’s first rays hitting her face and the dew against her cheek – but there was no immediate waking or immediate sleep. It was when the sun had come above the treetops and its light shone directly in her face that she became a _ware._

 _Oh,_ she thought.

She did not move, at first, but looked. She was on a hill – she had to be, for the treetops were on the same height as her – and only then did she remember what a hill was. The treetops were green, and in fact, everything to the horizon was green. The wind, which was starting to become chilly, bore with it the smell of leaves and the sweetness of flowers. It smelled like a meadow she remembered; flowers and grass had been as tall as her, small as she had been, and she had run, run fast and far. From what she had run from, or what she had run to, she did not remember but the memory sparked a smile.

She remembered meadows and hills and forests, filled with the smell of pine. They had not been like this one before her, where the trees were clothed in their soft leaves and grew on fertile, dark earth. She remembered a name for it; _Dorthonion,_ and a great hall in a land called _Ladros,_ and someone smiling and telling her all of this; someone she had called _Father._

 _I am Andreth,_ she told herself, for now she remembered that as well, _Wise-woman of the House of Bëor. I am sister of Bregor and Beril, and once called Saelind._

With that came memories streaming through her mind like a river; faces and stories and dreams. Most of them stories, told to her by a remarkable woman with a faded face, and her telling them to children, grown men and the bright beings they had called _elves._ She remembered herself and her own thoughts and it was as if she got to know someone new. The sun was high in the sky by the time stories and faces and thoughts had made it through all, and it came down to the question:

_Where am I?_


	2. I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reunion takes place after around 10,000 years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me introduce Derufin the fisherman!

“The sea is strange today,” one of the fishermen had told Derufin that morning before he rowed out from the coast of Anfalas. “As if it is overflowing.”

Derufin, a fisherman since he was three and could hold a fishing rod, had not taken it very seriously; he knew seafolk could be a bit too poetic and superstitious for their own good, and as long as it did not mean a storm was brewing, he would not worry. But when he sat in his small boat, small waves making it sway, and waited for the fish to fall to the bait, he had to agree that something strange was in the air.

‘Overflowing’ the other fisherman had said. Derufin could see it; the waves were just a bit bigger than usual, there was much more foam, and the salty air was more unbearable than usual in the summer heat.

Derufin was a simple fisherman with five children, all old enough to be out of the house, and nowadays he only fished for himself and his wife. He was named after a lord’s son, one of the tall young men who lost their lives in the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, long ago at the end of the Third Age. Why his mother had decided a dead lordling was a good namesake, he could never know, but perhaps it had been out of longing for home; Derufin’s mother came from the Blackroot Vale in the north, and Derufin had been one of the two sons of its lord Duinhir. His mother had only been a girl during the War of the Ring, but she had used to tell her son about how Elessar had exited the Paths of the Dead and called the Oathbreakers to his side and together they had swept towards Pelargir.

 _Old tales, old tales,_ Derufin thought to himself and shook his head. In the northern and eastern part of Gondor they could nurture their knowledge and tales like trees and gold, but Derufin was native to the fishermen of Anfalas and tales of old wars and heroics was more a pastime for evenings by a fire. He preferred the songs about the sea; of Uinen and her husband Ossë, of the Lord of the Waters, of an elven city long ago with its white ships stolen from its owners (a sad tale, but so very ancient that no names were remembered, but the story was much the same), and the tale of Erendis and Aldarion in old Númenor. He was not known for his love of lore, Derufin, but he could remember such tales and song like he remembered all the dangerous parts of the coast where the water was too deep and dark and would suck you down if you were not careful.

Derufin clicked his tongue and gazed towards the shore. If he looked hard, he thought he could make out some of the hills of Pinnath Gelin to the north, but mostly he just saw the sandy shore and low cliffs.

At first, he thought he could see a stranded whale of some sort. _A terribly small one,_ he thought sadly, ever a little mournful of the cruel ways of nature. But then it moved, and he continued looking.

 _By Uinen – it's human!_ He thought and blinked, as if it would make any more sense.

It was definitely human and they were as naked as the day they were born; Derufin thought he could see the sunlight glisten on the skin. They had long hair, too, that he could also make out despite the distance – it seemed to drag in the sand as the person tried to sit up.

Derufin completely forgot his fishing rod in favour of this strangeness playing out in front of him.

There had been no storm recently and therefore no known shipwrecks. And if there had been, wood and other wrecked things from the ship should litter the shore and not only this one survivor. Yet, something human had been washed ashore.

It looked west, into the sun which had begun its downwards climb. Something cold settled in Derufin’s gut at the sight. He immediately thought _something strange is going on._ He had never been one for strange things; he kept to himself, his fishing, his wife, and children.

But then the human looked around from where it sat up and seemed to turn inwards; the shoulders sank, the head bowed, the knees were drawn up and their hands came up to cradle the head. It told Derufin exactly what they were feeling: despair and loneliness.

Without thinking about it much, Derufin laid his rod down in his boat and took up the oars. It was a far distance to the shore, and he needed to be home soon, but here someone was lying naked on the beach, without help, and Derufin’s mother had always told him to help where he can. It won over his dislike of strange things.

As he rowed, with his back towards the beach, he missed the scene that played out: on one of the lower cliffs a dark, small figure emerged. She, for it was a woman, had a ragged piece of cloth on her which had probably been a dress once. An old farmer’s wife, ready to throw it away, had given it to her when she had seen the woman, then naked, outside her house that very morning.

Said woman now peered down from the cliffs and stilled in shock when she saw the human, or being or whatever it was, in the wet sand, who still sat with their hands in their hair and over their face. Derufin, from his boat, would have been unable to see the confusion, the fear, the wonder, which spread across her face, but then he sat with his back towards them, wondering if he maybe could give the human on shore the very old, ragged shirt he had with him as a spare.

The woman, after a while of staring, began climbing down from the cliffs, careful and quiet. She really was a small thing; she was not tall like the Gondorians or the Rohirrim, though her hair was dark brown like the former, and her naked feet and arms were pale like the latter. When she had made it halfway down the cliffs, she became sure of who it was down on the sand and called out a name. When they did not react, she called out again and now the head was lifted. It turned towards her. The whole body seemed to stop breathing.

They stared. The woman stared back, then carefully made it the whole way down. The human, though now it became clear it was actually an elf, whispered a name and swayed a little. The woman took a shaking breath and said something and the elf then became aware that he was, in fact, naked. He flushed, she blushed and looked away, and then said something more. The elf answered. Then she pointed a finger at Derufin’s boat, which was approaching.

And when he made it to shore, and saw the elf – by Uinen, an elf! – and then the woman in the ragged dress, he could only exclaim:

“By the Valar, there’s two now!”

Of course, he soon realised that the woman was actually not an elf, but very much human, and in faltering Sindarin they managed to speak with each other. Derufin only understood a little of the elvish tongue, mostly because he lived so close to Belfalas, but the woman’s elvish sounded different to theirs. The elf eventually spoke as well, in an even more archaic Sindarin, and Derufin gave him his spare clothes. Then he gave them directions to the village close by and told them to seek out his wife to get some food. He needed to get back to the small harbour to sell his fish and so he rowed out again, bewildered. _The sea was indeed overflowing today,_ he thought.

It was strange to see her face again, Aegnor thought. Her dark hair; her deep, grey eyes; her pale skin. And her voice! He had heard her voice before he saw and met her and somehow he had carried that closer to his heart than everything else. To hear it again –

“I have never seen such fertile land before, only heard of it,” she said as she looked out over the hills to the north, which the fisherman had called Pinnath Gelin. “We must be more south, mustn’t we?”

Aegnor tried to pull the shirt closer to his skin – the fisherman had been generous and given him some old clothes, but they were ill-fitting. Too big around the shoulders and too short for his taller stature. He looked north, to the green hills he could probably make out more clearly than she.

“Yes,” he answered. “And the air is milder. It reminds me of Alqualondë.”

For once, he did not blush in shame or try to speak quieter when mentioning his mother’s city. The thought of the first kinslaying was far away when she was close, as it always had been, but he also remembered how it had all ended. Somehow, he remembered what only Vairë's tapestries could have told him and he had seen cousins dying and throwing themselves into fire and wandering endless shores and thought: _yes, it is repaid now._

He could feel her eyes on him. He dared not look back. Saelind's heart was wise but it was with her eyes she had learned. And this he did not know what it was she would see.

“That is the other elven city in the West, no? Your brother only barely spoke of it,” she said and it was obvious that she was curious.

“It is. It is the city of the Teleri, or Falmari, Elu Thingol's kin. My mother’s people,” he told her and could not remember if he had ever told anyone on Beleriand that. How much they had been quiet about!

She was silent for a while and he turned his eyes to the west, where the sun was slowly disappearing. He closed his eyes and felt the warmth on his face.

“We need to seek out that village Derufin spoke of,” Andreth at last said. “We cannot stay once the sun is gone. Even here it must become cold.”

He smiled to himself before he turned back to walk with her. Her voice! It was right there; right behind him – he need only reach out his hand to touch. And for once he knew it was real. 


	3. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are wounds to forgive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's honorary side character: Bathron the horse!

What is important to know when Eru decides to drop a stitch in the tapestry that is the Song, is that He is, in the end, only the one doing the dropping and nothing else. When the One does such a thing as change the Song, he leaves the Children involved to handle themselves. In other words: Aegnor and Andreth were, in the beginning of their new, own story, just that: new and on their own.

Theoretically, all they needed was each other. Realistically, they also needed somewhere to live and food and money to buy somewhere to live and something to eat. And they had nothing when they awoke in Endor anew, Andreth on a green, dew-strewn hill and Aegnor washed ashore on coarse sand in the dying sunlight. They only had each other and for many other couples, that might just have broken them.

Derufin’s wife had given them food and a roof over their head that first day and many days after, until they had found their footing – and better clothes – and could find work and a place to live.

Once upon a time, Aegnor had realised one day, when he was a prince in a perfect paradise far away and only cared about loving and disliking his family in equal measure and riding through the plains with his brother Angrod - he would not have made it now. Had he not walked across the Ice, built a realm with Angrod and guarded said land for four hundred years, he would not have managed those first years in Gondor with Andreth. The lack of money, the lack of work and the confusion were heavy burdens to bear for a former prince of the Noldor and a wise-woman. They both had their hands but their real talent had always lain in their words.

Andreth, as a woman of the First Age, was familiar with a harder life, but she was also born and had lived during the only peaceful period of that Age. Morgoth had been the real threat and though hunger and poverty certainly existed even then, she had been a lord’s daughter and a wise-woman besides. She had seen it but rarely experienced it but for some awfully cold winter when food was scarce.

The first few years were, as said above, hard for them both. Andreth knew, as every woman, needlework and weaving and cooking and with this she could manage among the Gondorians, but the patterns they embroidered and the food they cooked were strange to her – so many unknown flowers and birds and beasts they made out of thread and so many strange spices they put in their food. They found her strange, too, like a woman of the north, who only knew trees, the sun and moon and unknown animals taken from one’s fantasy as a motive and salt as the only seasoning. They never really asked where she came from, because they did indeed assume that she came from Rohan or, more likely, Dale or Esgaroth in northern Rhovanion. She never told them the truth.

Aegnor knew, as every man among his people, cooking and was skilled with animals and with hunting them in the forests. With this, he managed. When he and Andreth settled in Belfalas, after drifting from the villages in western Gondor because of lack of work, he pulled his weight by participating in the hunts and helping the stables in the city with their horses. No one could mistake him for a Man, for even among the Dúnedain he was tall and the light in his eyes was of another world. Not to say that his hair, which he stubbornly kept long, had the same strange light to it. Therefore, people asked what he could possibly be doing in Gondor, in Belfalas. Elves were nowadays a rarity, though the Gondorians still remembered Elessar's reign, when their Queen had been fair Arwen Undomiel, daughter of Elrond, and her kin had lived in Ithilien further north. Still, Aegnor was alone and living with a mortal woman from Rhovanion.

“Why did you come here?” a stable master’s son once asked Aegnor as they put horses back into the stable after a hunting day. Outside it was dark and the city slept drowsily. “Why not in Minas Tirith? Some of your kin may live there.”

Aegnor had only smiled and answered that it was pure chance that they landed in Dol Amroth, all while thinking that neither of them probably had kin still living on this side of the sea. And he had no wish to meet an elf, for he had enough and was satisfied.

They lived in a small house with only two rooms on the outskirts of Dol Amroth. They paid rent. Every day both walked to the city while the sun slowly rose from the horizon in the east. Andreth went to the seamstresses to see if they had work and they almost always had. And so she sat for most of the day with other women behind the shops and embroidered and repaired and sewed. Aegnor in turn visited the stables belonging to taverns or the Prince or rich merchants, who also always had work for him to do. Sometimes he joined longer hunts as a servant who took care of the horses and then he was often gone for a few days.

They knew few and people were careful in approaching them. He was tall and strange and bright, and she was small and kind and clever. Far-sighted, some called her. But people learned to accept and respect them all the same. They only wanted to live a peaceful life, after all.

*

The last day of the week was free. Neither of them had to walk to Dol Amroth and it was the only full day they enjoyed in their small house. The only full day they spent in each other’s presence.

The fire dwindled and the sunlight in the west was waning, but Aegnor did not want to sleep. Andreth sat by the slowly weakening light and tried to read a book a friend of hers had given her; its text was so small Aegnor nearly struggled to read his uncle’s letters, but Andreth was adamant. She had only had a basic understanding of letters in Beleriand – Finrod had enthusiastically tried to teach a rather sceptic Andreth -- but now she wanted more than basic. Aegnor believed it was about legends and myths, or possibly history.

He did not really care; he was looking at her. Her dark hair was freed from her usual braid thanks to his fingers – as soon as they had eaten, he had loosened the band and dragged his hand through the strands, releasing them. She had smiled, confused and unsure, but let him. He knew the softness and thickness of it and he thought of that feeling as he studied her face.

It was cast in firelight and made its curves and edges softer and warmer. He could only barely make out the pale freckles which only appeared when the sun made her skin darker. Aegnor used to trace those freckles in summer with his finger and Andreth always sat still with her eyes closed, silent and expectant. He had not noticed the freckles before, in another life by Aeluin; no, his flawless memory had not included that detail. There was much about Andreth his memory of those short days by the lake in drowned Beleriand failed to catch: her singing voice, her humming, her wry smile when she wanted to make fun of someone but did not, her stillness after a rush of emotions which burned vibrant in her, her careless dancing, her frown which creased her whole face, and her middle and ring fingers, which were bent towards each other, as if they whispered secrets to the other.

 _What a bleak memory I had,_ Aegnor thought and followed her motion when she put a strand of hair behind her ear with his eyes. When she looked up, he added: _what a cruel world to keep me from learning and finding them._

Andreth seemed shocked by something, her eyes widened, and then she did what Aegnor had not seen her do in a long while: she blushed. His heart began beating a little faster. Her cheeks became dark and suddenly her eyes flickered around him, without meeting his. This was a precious sight he treasured; it was a new thing to commit to memory. He felt his own face warm up.

“You are staring,” she said, and her voice was strange in the silence that had fallen between them.

“I am sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” he said, mostly out of courtesy. He had done it before and even though she had looked out of sorts she had told him no when he had asked if she wanted him to stop.

“You were only a little … intense, this time,” she said, and her blush did not disappear. Aegnor smiled a little, he also a little flushed.

“I was very focused,” he said, slightly apologetic.

She raised an eyebrow and he was glad she seemed to regain her footing. “On what?”

“You,” he simply answered.

“To remember me in a thousand years?”

It was a slightly sensitive topic, to mention the unsure future of both – how long would they live? Was Aegnor still immortal? Would he go back to waiting in the Halls when – if – he died? They had lived with each other some years now, but it was still many questions they had not dared ask. He swallowed and Andreth opened her mouth to say something else, to change the subject, to not ruin the silent happiness they had enjoyed this evening, but Aegnor was faster:

“Every memory I could try to keep would be a bleak thing – and lonely and worthless, too. Nothing can compare to you in person.”

Her blush disappeared and instead she grew slightly pale.

“That is indeed high praise, considering what I have been told of the impeccable memories of the Eldar.”

Aegnor’s brother had told her; he did not need to ask her. But he saw her hesitance and insecurity – the old wound _he had inflicted_ long, long ago by not choosing her and leaving and --

He did not want to think of Finrod and whatever advice he had given him a dark night long ago, no, he wanted to see Andreth blush again and hear her laugh. Therefore, he rose and put down her worn book and took her hand, warm and small in his and with small callouses he had noticed appearing, had noticed her changing before him, and said in the weak light of the embers:

“I would be a great fool if I made the same mistake twice – enough memory-gathering tonight, Andreth. I would rather just love you.”

They went to bed and when he could hear her calm breathing in her bed, he prayed to the Valar and the One, that she knew his own regret and shame over what he had caused and that she would forgive him.

Aegnor did not notice at first, because she hid it so well, but the week following that conversation, Andreth was quiet and pensive but she did not share her thought with him. Sometimes he found her looking at him in the evenings when they ate dinner, as if she had asked him a question and waited for the answer. Aegnor wished to know what she had asked and tried to ignore the growing, gnawing fear in his gut.

“I used to hold a Siege against a Dark Lord,” Aegnor told the horse in Quenya. “It was a rather dangerous job; it included a lot of killing Orcs and having to deal with my half-cousins, which, if you knew them, you would understand why it was dangerous.“

He combed through the tresses of the mane, while the horse – Bathron, fittingly meaning _Trampler_ in Sindarin – munched hay. He was a horse belonging to the Prince of Dol Amroth, or rather his children. They were right now in the Prince’s stables, Aegnor finishing his last task before leaving for home. Outside it was already dark and everyone else had left; only a lamp in Bathron’s box and by the gate to the stables was lit and kept the night at bay.

“They were maybe not that bad; their brothers were worse,” Aegnor continued, frowning slightly at the memory. “Turkafinwë, or Celegorm, or _Turkaut_ , as I and Angrod sometimes jokingly called him, and Morifinwë were certainly worse in temper, though I have heard Moryo became better and nicer over time … Not to mention Curufinwë – there has not existed a more arrogant elf on this side of the sea since! And he was always smug – thank the Valar Findaráto was the one to deal with him!”

Bathron did not say anything back and Aegnor was quiet for a moment before continuing, less irritated:

“Though he was smart, I will give him that. When it came to inventions, he was unmatched. And Turkafinwë was also clever, even though we called him _Strong Fool –_ he was probably cleverer than Curufinwë, actually. You just did not notice.”

“And Morifinwë was always less arrogant and smug than both of those. Sure, he had a temper, but the only reason why I never could like him was because I could not understand what he had against _me_. Or maybe it was against Findaráto – in that case, I can maybe understand.”

Bathron snorted and Aegnor seemed to be ripped from his thoughts.

“That was not what I wanted to talk about,” he said and petted Bathron’s neck. “What I meant was this: I have led a siege, I have dealt with impossible, _kinslaying_ cousins, some as my neighbours, I have been in love with a mortal and wanted nothing more but be by her side and love her, I have _died_ , I have been reborn thousands of years later and built a new life without even my brother, who I thought I would always have by my side, and yet –“

He let out a frustrated sound and Bathron raised his head from the hay, wondering what this elf could possibly be making noise about. Aegnor looked at him and told him:

“This should not be difficult. I just want to tell her, to say – that I am sorry. To admit that I hurt her. That I regret it. But … “

Bathron breathed and the low sound made Aegnor sigh. He dragged his fingers through his hair, exasperated.

“I am so afraid. We have not properly talked all these years. I have admitted my love, but she is understandably more careful. If I say something wrong now, if she does not forgive me, then what are we doing here? Have we been granted a new chance for nothing?”

Bathron did not understand the problem and thought this elf was making a fuss about an easily fixed problem but could not answer anyway. Aegnor was silent for a while.

“But I must,” he said quietly. “Better to meet fear than hide from it. It did not work with Orcs and it certainly will not work with Andreth.”

Bathron agreed with a snort. The elf reached the conclusion without his help.

When he came home that night – for it was night when he finally reached their house – he found her sitting by candlelight, reading. She often did, nowadays. She used to discuss what she had read with him, but this last week she had not.

“I believe I need to tell you something,” he began when he entered.

She looked up and looked afraid, and he knew he did too. He felt his voice sway a little.

“You do not need to say anything,” he continued and took one of the kitchen stools to sit beside her. She had the book in her lap and her look was now alarmed. “But I need to … ask you to forgive me.”

He let the words sink in and she blinked, now confused. _You have started, now finish it,_ he told himself. How he now wished he had the same way with words as Finrod!

“It is an old hurt, but that does not make it unimportant. Long ago, we met by Aeluin and I did fall in love with you. You did, too, and even though we did not belong to those … great, overflowing love stories like Beren and Lúthien, it was love. My brother advised me against it, saying that it would only lead to grief, for we had not the power and … fated love, as a union between Man and Elf had to have.”

Here Aegnor had to take a deep breath, remembering the dark night his brother had told him so. It had been as if the stars had gone out and died and Aegnor had been left in the darkness, alone. Yet he could not protest, even now he found it hard to speak against his brother’s arguments, and he had been left with the only choice: to only remember, and not make new memories.

“I … I did not speak against him. I believed him to be right, as he always had been. And that is what I need to ask you for forgiveness for. For even though it was not fated love, even though it hurt me to do it, I left you. To say I suffered for my love does not make that fact disappear. It does not erase the fact that it was my choice. And sometimes … I can see the selfishness of my decision. I had my memories; when I died and was alone in the Halls, I had that, at least. You, with the stars in your hair, and your voice, telling me your people’s stories by the fire. I had that.”

“But … “

His voice nearly broke. _Look her in the eye,_ he told himself. _Let her see you; face the fear!_ And he did.

“I believe you found happiness in your life, anyway; it would have been a poor one if you wasted it with grieving, and in peacetimes, too! But I still did not choose you and I still hurt you and for that I beg for your forgiveness. I wished I would have dared love.”

Andreth opened her mouth as if to say something, but no sound came out. Her eyes were wet and so were Aegnor’s. He dared not say another word.

“I forgive you,” she said at last. “Of course I do.

Then they both cried, she for the freedom of finally forgiving, for is it not easier to let go when the other admits fault, admits there is something to forgive? And he for the weight of guilt being lifted, of his fear disappearing, of love finally being free to grow.


	4. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aegnor meets a king.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eldarion the king makes an appearance alongside Bathron.

Eldarion heard of the elf living in Dol Amroth from his brother-in-law, the Prince of the city.

 _A stranger with light in his eyes alike to your mother, the late Queen,_ the Prince wrote, _yet more content mucking stables and taking care of petty lords' horses than being in court or among his own people._

His mother had died over twenty years ago, and sometimes Eldarion met the light, the life of her being in his dreams. Most days, that was all he could remember. Her beauty, which had been so praised and sung about, had faded in his memory and all that was left was her smile and voice. That was enough, he told himself.

Arwen had been one of the few elves her son had ever known, for her brothers Elladan and Elrohir had not been seen since their father sailed West and left them in charge of Imladris. The Wood-elves of Ithilien that lived there during his father’s reign he had met and tried to befriend and succeeded to an extent. The memory of Galadriel and Celeborn and Elrond Peredhel though was all passed down through Arwen to her son and daughters. She had been unique and unlike the Silvan elves Legolas Greenleaf brought with him to Gondor.

Yet now there was rumoured to be another living in Dol Amroth. _Light in his eyes alike to your mother, the late Queen,_ the Prince had written. _No one was like my mother,_ Eldarion had thought when he read it and had indeed disregarded it.

Years later it was still said; that an elf in possession of power and light alike to Queen Arwen walked the streets of the port-city. Eldarion could no longer disregard it but also not believe it. An elf, living alone among Men?

 _No, he lives with a woman outside the city – she finds work among the seamstresses where she can, though she has begun several heated discussions with our loremasters,_ the Prince writes when he mentions it in his next letter. It only puzzles him more. In his answer he asks if they are married and his brother-in-law writes, _my wife and your sister says she has seen no ring on his finger, but then maybe elven traditions are different?_

Elven traditions were not different, as far as he remembered.

 _An elf living with a mortal, unmarried, mucking stables in a Mannish city,_ he thought. _What a strange pair._

He then realised he was not the one to talk, with his parents having been quite the tale, though it had never been sung or told in Minas Tirith when Eldarion was a child. Aragorn and Arwen had not dwelled much on how they finally could be together once they had married and had children. Perhaps it had been his mother, who had not wanted to think about what awaited.

Years after his sister and her husband had written to tell him about the elf, he finally penned a letter, saying he was to visit. Officially, he wished to meet his nephews and nieces and meet the Prince of Dol Amroth, a loyal lord. Unofficially, he wished to see the elf with his own eyes. _Light in eyes alike to that of your mother,_ his brother-in-law had written. Maybe Eldarion only wished to see that light he had missed again.

“He used to be rather famous in Dol Amroth,” his sister Vinyáre told him as she braided her youngest daughter’s black hair. “But when he did not do anything spectacular – no magic or songs or other elvish things – it calmed down. Now people are rather used to him and treats him the same way they do their own.”

Eldarion smiled. The elf had been accepted as an inhabitant of the city; a curiosity turned normal.

“And the woman he lives with?” he asked and Vinyáre frowned.

“It has been a little harder for her, I have been told. She looks like she comes from Rhovanion, but I am not so sure, brother. There is something strange about the pair.”

Her daughter jumped a little and let out a frustrated sound; she wanted to get back to playing with her friends in the vast garden again. Vinyáre rolled her eyes and finished the braid. As the child ran away, she turned to her brother and added:

“But she has been accepted as well, I believe. According to the loremasters in the archives, she has come by and begun several philosophical discussions. Some have turned rather heated, but I know they are actually rather excited about her; she is ruffling their feathers and the result is interesting.”

There was a horse in his sister’s stable that had once stood in Minas Tirith; it descended somehow from the very horse they had been given by their parents to learn how to ride on. Vinyáre had, in a bout sentimentality, asked Eldarion to let her take it with her to Dol Amroth after the birth of her first daughter and he had agreed. The horse was smaller than the one a full-grown man or woman would ride, but bigger than a pony and a of a gentler temper. It was perfect for children in that age between childhood and teenage years.

When Eldarion visited Dol Amroth, he tried to go down to the stables and maybe give it a carrot or sugar cube, mostly for sentimentality’s sake. Sure, this horse had not taught him and his sisters to ride, but it reminded him of that loyal, gentle steed.

This time was no different; in the morning, after breakfast but before anyone in his sister’s family was ready to ride out to the city or do some similar activity, he went down to the Prince’s grand and well-kept stable. With him was at least three carrots he had taken from the kitchen, pretending not to know how ridiculous it was for a king to sneak into a kitchen and take – steal – carrots.

As he searched after the box, he chided himself for not simply asking – it is not as if they would deny him. When he saw the familiar head peeking out, he was just about to greet it when he heard from inside the box, in Quenya: 

“- I have told her that she should go to the library and borrow more – surely they would allow her – but she always comes up with excuses not to. Is she feeling insecure, maybe? She certainly shouldn’t, she probably knows more than any of those loremasters, but it is kept in her memory and not in any scrolls.”

The voice was chipper and though Eldarion had learnt Quenya partly from speaking with Arwen, he immediately found this stranger’s grasp on the language immensely better. More flowing – his own seemed stiff and formal in comparison. But it was older, which could only mean one thing-

The horse – Bathron, if Eldarion remembered correctly – neighed loudly at him and the speaker from inside the box looked up. They both seemed to freeze at the sight of the other, even though they certainly did not know each other. The elf recovered quickly.

“I did not know someone was here, my lord. May I help you with something?” he said, in Westron. Anyone would have taken him for a native speaker.

“Ah, no,” Eldarion answered, only able to think of that memory he had of the light of his mother’s people, “I only came here to meet Bathron, actually.”

The elf smiled at that, then nodded. “I shall go take care of the other horses then.”

“There’s no need for that – I only wanted to give him some carrots.”

The smile turned into a grin. “Some, my lord?”

“You need not call me ‘my lord’, you are clearly … hm, well … “

The elf turned serious. It was a bit like blowing out a candle in a black room; sudden and dark. _Which is ridiculous,_ Eldarion said to himself, _because the sun is right outside._

“I will continue calling you ‘my lord’, my lord. I am, after all, a servant tending to the horses of your kinsman’s stable.”

 _Yes, but should you be here?_ Eldarion thought.

“Then let us say that I do not enjoy being called ‘my lord’ so early in the day. Or at least not when I am on holiday,” he said instead.

“You are on holiday, my lord? From where?”

“Minas Tirith,” he answered automatically and did realise that the elf did not know who he was. Once, when he was younger, he would have enjoyed it and taken the opportunity, but not nowadays, so he added: “I am the King. King Eldarion.”

But the elf just gave him another smile and said:

“Well, then I understand why you would want a holiday.”

 _Huh,_ Eldarion thought.

“What is your name? My sister has mentioned you, as has my brother-in-law, but they failed to give me your name.”

The elf looked only surprised, and let a hand stroke Bathron’s mane. The horse was, for once, quiet, as if he listened. Like the true eavesdropper he was. If he only could speak, then people would know it, too.

“The Prince and Princess have mentioned me? Why? I cannot understand why they would- “

Eldarion only raised an eyebrow. The elf blinked, then he realised and sighed.

“I see,” he said and Eldarion repeated his question. “My name is … uhm, Amartharod*.”

“That is a very fateful name,” Eldarion said. He wondered why he did not have a name in Quenya or why he did not want to give his real name.

“My father was rather ambitious, at least in the names he gave his children.”

“So you have siblings?”

“Aye,” Amartharod said, and got a distant look, as if mist clouded his eyes. “I have three. Or had, at least.”

“You do not know if they are alive?”

“Oh, they are absolutely all three alive,” the elf snorted, “on the other side of the sea. Living their life in full, I imagine. With all of my brother’s children running around, no doubt. He always wanted to have children but did not in his first life. I bet he has made up for that now.”

“You do not want to join them?” Eldarion asked and did not mask his surprise. The elf had spoken with a hint of irony in his voice, but also with obvious love. And just a little bitterness.

But Amartharod looked straight at him, suddenly gone from the distant land of imagination and memories.

“No,” he simply said. “I am content here. I do not want to be anywhere else.”

It did not leave any room for questioning.

“I see,” Eldarion said and glanced at Bathron, who still eavesdropped. Could horses eavesdrop? “I am surprised.”

“How so?” Amartharod asked, though he looked as if he had already guessed.

“My mother would have gone across the sea after my father died, if she had not been able to choose mortality and go with him. She missed her father and her mother and knew her brothers would come after. Perhaps she also wanted to meet the rest of the family. The elven part. Her grandmother’s family.”

The elf’s eyes softened. “But she could go with your father.”

Eldarion felt the same bitterness he had felt when Arwen had told him of her fear, but not in so many words, before she left Minas Tirith. “Yes, but it was not a sweet passing. Not like the songs sing of Lúthien’s.”

“Lúthien’s was probably also a bit painful, even for her. She was not perfect, you know,” the elf said.

 _Did he know her?_ Eldarion thought and frowned.

“But nothing suggests she felt the same fear that my mother felt.”

“She was afraid? Forgive me, my lord, I did not know. I do not know the tale as well as Gondorians,” the elf said and appeared truly remorseful. Eldarion sighed, but smiled.

“No harm done. I should not have expected you to. My mother felt age come upon her, like a Man, and she claimed she understood what had driven others to fear it. Why the Númenorians had tried to escape it. She felt the same dread.”

“Even though she had chosen it to be with your father?”

“She felt she had more years to give, I suppose,” Eldarion answered. “She felt safe in the knowledge that she would meet him one day.”

The elf hummed and looked at Bathron, as if he was thinking.

“Do you think your mother should have chosen differently?”

“That is impossible for me to say. She would not have lived a life with the person she loved, but then she also would have spent the rest of hers with family, people she also loved, but in a different way. And the fear of death is nothing new, and everyone survives it. Or well,” he said wryly, “of course, they do not. But we must all face it.”

The elf hummed again.

“And to live the memory of something nearly had would have been torture. To regret that she did not take the chance.”

“I suppose,” Eldarion said, unsure how to react. The elf clearly spoke from experience.

Bathron shook his head and Amartharod smiled a little, then he looked up at Eldarion. Eldarion had the feeling that he saw someone else in his face. He wondered who.

“I need to leave, Your Grace; I have a horse I need to prepare for a hunt for the Prince’s sister,” the elf said and made his way out of Bathron’s box. “But do have fun giving Bathron carrots, I am sure the beast will love it.”

Eldarion laughed and the elf seemed a bit struck for a moment.

“Oh, and Your Grace?”

Amartharod had turned around before a corner on the right. Eldarion only looked back, waiting.

“My real name, the one I am known as, is Aegnor.”

And then the elf was gone and Eldarion, King of Gondor and Arnor, stood rooted to the spot, as tales and memories passed through his head like a whirlwind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Amartharod = “Champion of Doom”/”Noble/Tall/Eminent Fate” in Doriathren Sindarin (because that is the Sindarin Aegnor likes the best because of his kin he had in Doriath), a.k.a. Aegnor’s father-name in proper Sindarin (and not in the Noldorin version of Sindarin), or at least me trying to give him the one most alike to his Quenyan father-name.


	5. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aegnor is rather cruelly reminded of humanity and how very different they can be.
> 
> (read notes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: this chapter contains Animal Harm and Animal Death, though the death itself is not described in graphic detail. If anyone would rather skip, do so.

Belfalas sometimes suffered great summer storms – the air grew humid and suffocating and the sky became filled with dark clouds alike to those Aegnor had seen over Thangorodrim, though these were more healthy-looking – not like they were filled with ash. Thankfully, the summer storms were few and short once they began. Worse was the wait. Both Aegnor and Andreth seemed to suffer under the humidity and sometimes, dark thoughts began looming in their minds like those clouds on the horizon.

*

One day, Aegnor heard a man shout as he walked along the streets of Dol Amroth. The sun was shining and the white houses nearly hurt his eyes in the brightness. He had felt rather at peace and careless in the moment, for he had just taken care of some horses after their masters had returned from a long hunt and that had been it for the day, and with double the pay. But when he saw a small shadow run past him – fast, and on four legs – he woke from his reverie. No one around him really took notice, some just looked up when a burly man came running after, red and scarred in the face and heaving for breath.

“Come back, you cur!” the man shouted in-between breaths and Aegnor flinched as the man ran past, partly because of the sheer volume and partly because of the stench. 

He could hear the dog bark down the street and Aegnor’s heart stilled, because it was not a bark alike to that of the hunting hounds, but more a whine. The man followed, all while continuing heaving out curses and huffing. Aegnor looked around and no one took notice.

A wail could be heard down the street and now it felt like having his heart break because that was the dog’s. A bang and crash followed, and an even louder wail shattered the air. Aegnor could not move. Cries coming from something so helpless and small continued and a sound alike to punches preceded them. Curses and profanities, too. That was, until the cries weakened to whimpers and at last disappeared; then Aegnor could only make out the quiet huffing of a large man.

He had thought of going to the fish market to buy fish for dinner, because Andreth was curious and had so far liked it, but now he turned around and walked out of the city in a haze, the cries of a dog ringing in his ears.

Andreth found him sitting still like a statue by their window when she came home late that evening. There was no fire and no food as far as she could tell, but that did not worry her. Aegnor sat still as stone and his eyes were stuck staring out, perhaps at the horizon or just the sea, she could not tell. A thousand warning bells rang in her head and she carefully put down the bag she had carried.

He heard her, she was certain he did, but he did not react.

 _You have met a thousand more frightful situations,_ she told herself, because she could feel the fear clawing. _Did you learn nothing?_

Andreth then remembered a small boy in her hut in Dorthonion, who had one day sat exactly like Aegnor did now with big, scared eyes and still as if lame. He had been her brother’s grandson, she remembered, and his name had been Beren; he had seen a bear eat one of their lambs and his six-year-old mind could not come to terms with the cruelty.

And so Andreth walked with renewed confidence into their small kitchen and tried to start a fire. It took time, but she waited, while always keeping an eye on him by the window, and then she put on the kettle.

Aegnor still did not move, and by now it was dark outside, so Andreth lit some candles, even though they always had to save them for special occasions because they were expensive, and their hut was filled with the warm but weak light. Outside it was pitch black; not even the moon in sight.

“Take this,” she said and gave Aegnor a cup of tea, which broke the spell which bound his eyes to the darkness outside the window.

He stared at it, at first, then wordlessly took it. There was something strange with his eyes and Andreth could not put her finger on why, until she realised their light was dim and weak, like a moon covered with dark clouds, hiding its light. _Faded,_ she thought and tried to quell the panic that rose. Finrod had spoken of the fading of Elves, had he not?

She tried to come across as calm when she watched Aegnor bring the cup to his lips and drink. He did not even flinch at the hot water.

Silence stretched between them, but Andreth told herself to _wait, wait it out; it will come out eventually._ Beren and all the other people who had come to her over the years had needed time most of all.

“He killed the dog,” Aegnor said, tearing up the silence.

Andreth waited.

“I was walking to the harbour – I finished early – and this dog ran past me. It was scared, Andreth, so obviously scared. And this man ran after it. He was obviously angry. He killed it. I heard how he beat it until it stopped screaming. I looked around and no one reacted. This – this was normal! Accepted!”

Aegnor let out a slightly manic laugh. “That animal was scared and could do the man no real harm, and he killed it ... “

“How can you live with such cruelty happening just before your eyes?”

The last sentence he said while staring at her, seeking an answer. Now Andreth could see the desperate anguish in his eyes and they felt real again. Alive. But at a loss with the world.

She took a deep breath, thinking through what she would say, knowing it was a crucial moment. Aegnor had not had such obvious struggles as she had, but he was still one of the Quendi, another race. The race of Man was still not his own.

“Someone once said to me that the race of Man was the only truly free being. We go beyond the World, beyond the Song, when we die, and we are free to choose our path. It sounds pretty and wonderful, does it not? But the downside of this complete freedom is … that we are also free to choose Evil and listen to its lies.”

Andreth only continued and hoped that he had chosen the right way of answering.

“We are not guided by Light and wisdom, Aegnor, not the way your people is. I used to be mad about it as well, when I was younger, but I came to realise that we are what we are. Cruelty exists among us just as kindness and wisdom does. We have the ability to belong to both sides and it is a constant fight within ourselves as well as _among_ ourselves, to keep us on the side of forgiveness and wisdom. But it can never be won, as well as never be lost.”

Aegnor stared at her for a few moments and she could not make out what he felt or thought.

“In my heart I knew that. I simply did not remember,” he whispered. “I just … “ and now he turned his head away and looked out into the dark again, “ ... I became … I _am_ overwhelmed. My people can be cruel too, Andreth, you know that – you know the story about how my cousins slaughtered my mother’s people and later did the same to my kin in Doriath. But … I have never witnessed needless cruelty among us. Never seen anyone kill someone or something without consequence.”

“There can be.”

“What?”

“There can be a consequence,” she repeated and when he did not understand, she explained: “One of the advantages of being a free being, Aegnor, is that we shape the world around us. If this man killed his dog needlessly, let us speak with him and ask why. And maybe see that he doesn’t own another one.”

Aegnor thought for a moment, then slowly began smiling, and nodded. Andreth sighed in relief at seeing the fading aura disappear and be replaced with what she knew; bright and living Aegnor. And then she asked if they had anything for dinner.


	6. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rings and love and far-away relatives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eldarion once again appears!

Eldarion had not met Aegnor since that short, but memorable, meeting in his sister’s stables. He had tried not to search for him, but had a feeling that even if he had, he would not have found him. What would he even say? ‘ _We are family’?_ Far-away, maybe. Through Celebrían and much further away through his father’s line, back to Lúthien and Turgon.

 _A bit far back to invite him to family dinners,_ Eldarion had thought wryly. But then, they had few relatives, he and his sisters. Few living relatives, who lived in Middle-Earth. Elladan and Elrohir somewhere in the North, but only the Valar knew when they would see them next, if at all. Their father had had a few cousins among the Rangers of the North, mostly through his mother, but those cousins were long dead now. And their elven relatives, well. They were alive, certainly, but not really within reach.

Eldarion had told his sister Vinyáre. She had promised to listen to what she heard about the elf and if he and his mortal woman ever were in need of help.

 _By the Valar, can the woman be Andreth Saelind, brother?_ she had asked.

 _It can be,_ he had answered.

Both decided to be quiet about it. The elf did seem to want to live a quiet life, and they would not try to ruin that.

Only around one year later, though, Eldarion was back in Dol Amroth. It was early summer and the first hot days had arrived. He visited the markets of the city, waiting for his sister and her family to be ready to leave for Pinnath Gelin.

The markets of Dol Amroth were wondrous; pearls from the sea, beads made out of glass, spices from Harad, brightly coloured fabrics also imported from Harad, fish, small jewellery made out of silver – it was overflowing and bright and rich. In the summer Arwen and Aragorn had brought their family to Dol Amroth and walked the same markets and then, in the evening, let Eldarion and his sisters run along the beach in the sunset. Eldarion could still remember the feeling of soft sand between his toes. Arwen had once told Aragorn, technically only meant for his ears but Eldarion had heard too, that this was how she imagined Alqualondë. It matched her grandmother’s description the best.

It made him proud, that a city of Men could be called alike to a city of the Teleri; that they could make beautiful things too, and cherish them.

This day, he thought the same.

He was in the part of the market belonging to the smiths, when he saw Aegnor.

He was easy to spot; taller than any Man, blond with shining hair, and the light surrounding any Elf who had seen the Trees. He stood by a stand and seemed deep in thought as he considered whatever jewellery the smith had to offer. Eldarion called his name and he looked up, surprised. When he saw him, the King, he looked confused but then hid it with a smile.

“Your Grace,” he greeted when Eldarion had reached him.

“No need to use titles,” Eldarion said. “I think you are higher up in the hierarchy, anyway.”

“I doubt it,” Aegnor said honestly. “I have heard my father is king, but that would still only put me on, what, third place to the throne? Probably more, since Finrod has certainly had some children by now.” 

Eldarion laughed and they both ignored the stand-owner's confused glance. “Yes, but you are in some more tales than I am, so you are more reputable.”

At that, Aegnor snorted. “Now _that_ ,” he said, “is certainly not true. I do not remember a single tale I took part in, except in the history as a whole. I went on no quests and built no cities, and I absolutely did not start any kinslayings.”

“Me and my sisters were always told of your love to Andreth and when we were older, we read _Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth_ , where you are mentioned a few times,” Eldarion told him. Aegnor looked only amused at that and thankfully not bothered by it.

“Seems like a hopeless tale to tell children. No happy ending whatsoever and no great story. Though the discussion between my brother and Andreth should have been interesting enough,” he said.

“It was,” Eldarion supplied. “And it was not a happy tale, no, but few from the First Age are. It is all doomed battles, treachery and violent deaths. And Túrin Turambar’s life was a nightmare in itself. My youngest sister had a few nightmares after that one.”

Aegnor frowned, trying to remember. “He was after my time, I believe. I have only heard the story told in passing and have not paid much attention to it.”

“It is miserable,” Eldarion only said. “A life where everything that can go wrong, goes wrong. Though a dragon is slain, which is a nice part.”

“Really?” Aegnor said, looking interested. “Which one?”

“Glaurung.”

“Hah! That old worm deserved it,” the elf said, uncharacteristically spiteful. “Nice to hear he died, at least.”

It was not hard to imagine him a lord defending his land against Morgoth, in that moment. The stand-owner, now confused and just a bit worried, gave them a glance and then turned to other customers. Both Eldarion and Aegnor ignored him.

“I actually meant to ask you,” Eldarion said. “Is the woman you live with Andreth? Andreth Saelind?”

“Aye,” Aegnor only answered, then added: “I thought that would be obvious.”

“Well, yes,” Eldarion said. “But it is not every day the dead come back to life, and especially not nearly three Ages later. It is hard to believe that something out of the tales is actually happening in your own time.”

“Says the son of one such tale,” Aegnor said, grinning. Eldarion waved it away.

“Yes, yes, I know,” he only said back. ”But how is she settling in?”

“Better than me, though that is expected,” Aegnor said, seemingly relieved. Eldarion could not imagine that he had the chance to discuss Andreth much with someone who knew their situation.

“My sister mentioned she works among the seamstresses,” Eldarion said and then frowned. “It is not a vocation I would have imagined for her.”

Aegnor laughed. “She used to be a wise-woman, and back in those days a wise-woman was a healer, entertainer and advisor. Today it is different.”

Eldarion guessed there was more behind his words. _It could not have been easy,_ he thought, _suddenly being alive in a new Age and country._

“If you need something ... I know you have managed well without me and my family’s help, but still. If you need help with anything, do not hesitate to ask. We may be far away family, but family still.”

Aegnor looked hesitant. Eldarion tried a different angle.

“My mother is your grandniece and she told me and my sisters all she could about your sister. Galadriel also gifted my father with the Elf-stone and plenty wise advice. Us helping you if you need it could also be us paying it back,” Eldarion said.

Aegnor looked less hesitant. “If my sister taught your mother and father anything, it was because you were family. There would be no debt,” he said. “But I will tell Andreth. If we need help, we will ask you.”

Eldarion smiled in relief. Aegnor looked back down on the jewellery and Eldarion realised he looked at the rings. _Is he after a wedding ring ...?_

“For now,” Aegnor began, “I would like some advice in a matter close to my heart.”

He gave a Eldarion a nearly shy smile, and if Eldarion did not know better he would think the elf blushed.

“Of course,” he said.

It had been _the most unromantic proposal I have seen since I drunkenly proposed to my brother’s wife,_ according to Aegnor. Andreth had been the one to ask the question. She had taken them out to eat their dinner outside, because it was the last day of the week and they were free; Aegnor from his now stable job in the Prince's stables and Andreth from her new work as something like a cataloguer or assistant or loremistress or all three, in Dol Amroth's library and dusty archive.

“I think we should eat outside today,” she had said in the morning and Aegnor had agreed. They had taken a blanket and basket and filled it with food and suddenly had what the Gondorians called a picnic. The weather was nice; clouds slowly swam across the blue sky and the sun was for once mild in its light and warmth. They found a small hill north of Dol Amroth, overlooking the sea and, though only seen by Aegnor, the abandoned city of Edhellond to the north. Even Ossë's waves were pleasant today, Aegnor had thought. And the Valar knew how unusual _that_ was.

They spent most of the time talking or sitting silent, enjoying it. Aegnor looked at Andreth and still marvelled at having her so close, so real beside him. Andreth looked at him too and thought the same. _To have been blessed,_ she thought. _Fate did smile upon us, and me, after all._

She then told him of a heated debate that had taken place in the library the day before. Aegnor listened from where he lied on the blanket, hair spread out in the green grass. Andreth sat just beside him.

“Legolas, the new apprentice from Emyn Arnen, the Steward's seat, thought it wise to ask the day before rest-day, if we should not open the archive to visitors as well,” she told an attentive Aegnor. “The head of the archive, with some old difficult name, had never become so red and angry – not even when I said that Gondor beautified its history -, saying: _this is some young ridiculous notion from Emyn Arnen! No one else in the Reunited Kingdom would consider such an outrageous idea!”_

“What is so strange with opening the archive?” Aegnor asked, genuinely curious. “Aren’t archives meant to hold the recorded history of all, and therefore should be open to all?”

Andreth chuckled, but not at him. “That may be an elven tradition. Apparently, in Gondor, it has been sealed off and if anyone but the loremasters wants to view the paper scrolls, they need to go through endless bureaucracy in Minas Tirith, of all places.”

Aegnor felt strangely insulted by that. Perhaps it was his Noldor side, horrified at an institution keeping information and knowledge from the people and not sharing it.

“What utter nonsense,” he said and was reminded of his uncle Fëanáro and his rather colourful critique he used to heap on the loremasters in Tirion. That had always been a sight and now he thought they were quite spoiled in Tirion.

“It is apparently not how it used to be,” Andreth told him. “I did look in the older scrolls, mostly consisting of administrative and useless information, except it stated that during some war of old, the King had ordered to close the archives, to stop the enemy from burning and plundering them. When the war was over, they simply did not open them to the public again.”

“But I am rambling,” she added and looked at him. “That is not what I wanted to talk about. Not really.”

“No?” Aegnor asked.

“It was actually about something Legolas said to me before he stormed off. He said: _I bet your husband think us plebeians because of the way we treat our well-guarded knowledge. Like dragons, but with paper._ I told him we were actually not married and that you did not think less of us. He was surprised, said: _You are not married, Andreth? But you live together?_ I said no, we are not. I realised it had never occurred to me.”

Aegnor had watched her with an intensity as soon as she mentioned ‘husband’. To any on-lookers he looked relaxed, but Andreth’s eye would easily spot the tension. But she did not look at him, but at the sea. She had only grown up around lakes and never lived by such a huge mass of water before. It calmed her, knowing it was there while she carefully unravelled and revealed her thoughts.

“We are, after all, already bound by so much. Neither of us can or want to walk away from the other and is not marriage foremost a promise? But no, it is also a union of families and we have no family on these shores, except far away relatives for you. When Legolas first said it, I thought it nearly disrespectful to marry without neither of our families knowing each other, when it is only us. But now … “

Aegnor slowly sat up, hair falling free down his shoulders like a golden, tousled waterfall. He felt like on the beach many years ago, seeing her for the first time in a long, long time, and realising it was _her._

“We do not know, Aegnor, if I will ever meet your siblings and parents, as well as we do not know if you will meet mine again,” she said and now looked back at him. His blue eyes were wide and afraid. “Nothing is certain, nothing but what we have now; what we have with each other. And last time, waiting did very little for us. So, Ambaráto Aikanáro, though you are known to my heart as Aegnor – will you marry me?”

“Yes,” he breathed, without a moment’s hesitation.

This Aegnor told Eldarion when they met on one of Dol Amroth’s markets and he asked for advice on rings. Andreth’s people did not exchange rings, except the rich and important lords, and so she had not prepared any. Aegnor though, had thought of his brother’s wedding long ago and Finrod’s betrothal feast even longer ago and realised he wanted one. Thus, Eldarion helped him choose one for the day, which was set ten days from then. The King of the Reunited Kingdom was welcome to attend and so were his sister and her children. Unfortunately, they had to decline, but they would be there to celebrate two days after the wedding, when they would be back from the journey to Pinnath Gelin.

Aegnor’s father had always dreamt of planning his children’s weddings. Eärwen had never been as enthusiastic as he was, nor her family. Her husband had let their children know from when they were young that he would gladly throw the caution and subtlety that he kept in the company of his own family to the wind for them. He would not be afraid to show his pride and happiness, just like Fëanor and Fingolfin.

Perhaps that was why his father was ever present in Aegnor’s thoughts the days leading up to his own wedding. His father – his sweet, wise father who he had last seen so long ago in Valinor, before he took the first steps over Helcaraxë - would not be there, nor would his mother – strong, loving Eärwen who had cried and locked herself away before her children could say a proper goodbye after Alqualondë. Not Fánwen either, the queen of the Teleri in their silver city who wore peach coloured dresses and sang like a nightingale, would be there. Not Olwë, who had always been the strong presence in the background, as opposed to Finwë, who always had the tension between his eldest son and second wife surrounding him.

 _Angrod will not see me married_ , Aegnor thought and maybe that was the worst thought of all. Angrod had followed him everywhere, and he had followed him ever since they were young, until Eärwen had joked that their family had their own set of twins.

Andreth had been right; a marriage was a union of families and perhaps it would never feel real as long as they never met. But still, Aegnor said yes and he meant it. They would have it as real as they could, for it was better than never having it at all.

Their wedding took place in what humans may have called a temple, except it had no priests, nor pyres or podiums for gifts and devotion to any gods, nor grand displays of worship. It was a small, rectangular building, cramped between many of Dol Amroth’s grander and bigger houses, and it consisted of one single, big room. It had large windows and in the middle of the roof there was a hole which opened up to the sky. The walls were lined with still, silent statues of the Valar, but with next to no adornments. Their sheer presence brought a gravity to the room – this was a place of honesty and importance.

It was in the middle of a warm summer’s day, when refreshing winds blew in from the sea and brought some relief. A fair day, it was. A good day for a wedding

Andreth and Aegnor stood facing one another in the middle of the room, underneath the open sky, and held each other’s hands. They had their best clothes on. He had cut his hair shorter, to his shoulders it now reached, and he was clad in a long purple tunic but with grey sleeves. Andreth had braided only a small portion of her hair back, with most of it hanging free, and had a new dress with red sleeves and grey body on. Only two others were present, strangers from the city acting as witnesses; an old woman and man with grey hair and tenderness in their eyes. To them it was a day of normality, to see two people say promises and vows to one another.

It was a fair day, a fair but maybe not a very noteworthy one in the long run. But it was a lovely one, when two fates in the Song were ultimately intertwined after a long, long time apart.


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All things must change and end and both be met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: contains major character death, but it is not described and not violent. The aftermath (grief of family members) is described, though.

A great many years passed and Eldarion married and had a son, and somehow the Reunited Kingdom flourished more than ever – somehow peace held. It had its ups and downs - Vinyáre’s oldest had an accident at sea and lost her ability to walk and Elfwine of Rohan grew old with age while Eldarion, who used to play with Rohan’s king when they were just princes, remained strong and young in his looks. Elboron, Faramir and Éowyn of Rohan’s son, passed away. They received the message that Elrohir had been sighted in Rohan and left the message that Elladan, his brother, would sail.

It held great joy, too: Vinyáre’s second daughter married; Eldarion wedded Alwedeth, from Harondor; Eldarion held his son in his arms and then his daughter and then another son. And apparently, Vinyáre wrote to him, the elf’s wife had worked and collaborated enough with Dol Amroth’s loremasters to receive the title of honorary loremistress. Eldarion imagined it made both Aegnor and Andreth laugh to have her receive it – her, who had been the one to tell Finrod the very tales of Men’s beginning which were written down in scrolls in Dol Amroth’s library long, long ago.

It was years of joy. It was years of a life, for many. Perhaps it should not have surprised Eldarion then, to one day receive a letter from his sister, which said:

_Today we were told the news that two beloved people have passed away. Aegnor and Andreth are no longer with us, brother._

And thus, the last few stitches began being sewn by Vairë in Mandos, telling the last notes in a tale of great and small things, but one foremost of love.

Galadriel had woken with an uneasy feeling that day; something she could not name troubled her the whole morning. Celeborn had seen it but neither could answer where it came from; Celebrían had noticed, but she could not imagine what trouble it could be and no other member of her family – her _family_ , finally back together, though with some pieces missing – shared the unease.

It was not until midday, when she, her mother and Celebrían sat in the garden and either conversed or read or sewed, when Galadriel realised what she had dreaded.

“Mother,” she said, looking up from her book and turning to Eärwen, interrupting her conversation with Celebrían, “I think you should call for Father and Angrod. And Finrod,” she added. _He will want to hear this,_ _too,_ she thought.

Eärwen looked puzzled, Celebrían looked worried, but the former rose to call for a servant. Galadriel did not say a word more until her father and brothers had arrived, which scared her daughter even more.

“What is the matter?” Finarfin asked as soon as he reached the garden’s benches, where they sat.

“Mother only said you should come,” Celebrían explained, still with that Sindarin lilt to her words, still so careful and slow to speak. All the Quenya in the world could not erase Middle-Earth from her.

“Artanis?” Finarfin asked. Behind him, Angrod looked sceptic. He and Aegnor had not inherited the foresight both Galadriel and Finrod had been blessed – or cursed, depending on how you saw it – with. He could not understand it, though he respected it.

 _Aegnor,_ Galadriel thought sadly, _my strong, gone brother._ He used to ride his horse with Angrod and Fingon all across Valinor, once upon a time. Had climbed mountains with all of them and complained and picked fights and loved them and foremost _lived -_

“Father,” Finrod suddenly said and everyone looked at him. He, in turn, nodded to the entrance of the garden, where someone, without anyone hearing them arriving, stood. Galadriel did not need to look, already knowing, but Eärwen rose quickly.

The Maia of Námo, maybe the same from last time, said nothing. They looked the same; grey robes, hood hiding the face - if they had any - and still like a statue. They did not need to breathe, even. But they stood like a dark shadow under the arch which was the entrance to the green and blooming garden and to everyone, they looked like a bearer of darker news.

“Welcome,” Finarfin said, though it was many moments too late. He was scared.

The Maia seemed to take that as an invite to properly enter and they stopped in front of everyone.

“I come bearing news from Mandos,” they said calmly and it was not ill said, but Eärwen interrupted:

“Like last time?”

Finrod took a few steps towards his mother and laid a hand on her arm. No one else moved. Angrod could only stare, stare at the Maia as if they held his heart in their hand and was about to crush it; in a way, they did. Galadriel closed her eyes, not wanting to see. _A_ _last_ _hurt_ , she thought. _I must endure a last one._

“Ambaráto Aikanáro entered my lord’s dwellings yesterday,” the Maia told them.

“What does that mean?” Finarfin asked.

“He shall leave them today again,” they continued.

“What does that _mean_?” Angrod asked, and spoke as if he needed to force the words out through his teeth.

For once, it looked as if the Maia took a deep breath.

“He has been granted permission to go Beyond, the same way the Secondborn go,” they said and it fell like a pronounced judgement from his lord.

“No,” said Eärwen. “No- “

“Mother,” Finrod said.

“Did he choose it?” Angrod asked, desperate.

“He did,” the Maia answered. “He was given the option long ago, and chose it.”

“My son,” Eärwen whispered and it was said in anger, but at the world.

“My son,” Finarfin whispered and it was said in utter grief and ugly tears ran down his cheeks.

“How?” Finrod said breathlessly and with both wonder and hurt.

“He was given permission and a choice,” the Maia only answered but it was not really an answer at all.

“But we cannot go Beyond,” Finrod argued. “We are doomed to wait here, to be bound – only Men are free and gifted to leave it- “

 _He is jealous_ , Galadriel thought, for she knew her brother. _He loves his place in the world, but has dreamed of Men’s fate since he saw Middle-Earth's shores long ago. To have Aegnor go where a part of him wished he could have followed -_

“He has family here, his whole family is _here_ , why would he _leave_?” Finrod insisted but Angrod, who had known Aegnor best, did not say anything. He knew, in his heart.

“I cannot speak of things I do not know,” the Maia answered. “Ambaráto Aikanáro’s reasons only he can know.”

“Leave,” Eärwen said harshly. “Leave us, and let us grieve.”

The Maia only bowed their head in acknowledgement and Galadriel opened her eyes and realised she _needed to know-_

“Wait.”

The Maia stopped. Everyone looked at her. Time seemed to stop. Not even the birds sang anymore and insects had stopped buzzing.

“Was he alone?” she asked. “Will my brother go Beyond alone?”

“No,” the Maia said and something, _something_ , softened. “He will pass Beyond with the same person he left Mandos with, and the same he arrived with. He will leave this world with Andreth Saelind by his side.”

Galadriel said nothing. Was it relief she felt? Oh, yes. Oh – but grief as well.

“They were given the chance to find each other,” the Maia told them. “It was not certain they would; nothing is with the Children. But they awoke and found their way back to each other and stayed. In your grief - take that as a comfort. It was always a choice and it ended better than many others have.”

A tale of grief and bitterness and healing, and then of finding things you thought lost and regaining what you thought you had denied yourself – such was the tale bearing Andreth Saelind and Aegnor Sharp-flame's names.

They left in light; they left holding each other’s hand, tasting the bittersweet flavour of life and choices, but choosing to remember the sweet and to smile. Life was behind them and maybe before them, for just like life what lay before was unknown. Aegnor and Andreth departed from the circles of the world in light, in happiness and together.

And thus, a last stitch in one of Vairë’s tapestries was sewn, a last note in the world’s Song was sung, and they were about lost, and found, and healed love.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to comment or kudos if you liked it!


End file.
